


I Am The Rain

by Le_Chien_Bleu



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Band Fic, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Chien_Bleu/pseuds/Le_Chien_Bleu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl Barat is a human rain storm, and every day is cloudy and grey.  He is camping out on the Glasvegas tour bus, and James decides to teach his friend a thing or two about heavy weather.  Set post-Libertines and Dirty Pretty Things break-ups.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am The Rain

He moves under a dark cloud; the same coil of damp misery and grumbling thunder that has followed him since he left London.  From city to city it hangs overhead like an ever-steady compass.  It shades his days and wraps around him, cushioning the world away from him. 

He sees people drifting around him through the mist, their lips move like gasping fish. 

 _Cheer up_ , they say.  _Speak up_ , he wants to tell them, _I’ve got water in my ears_.  They touch him but his skin is numb from cold and he has no feeling left.

 _Why so miserable?_ demanded the photographer who took his picture yesterday in a swanky hotel pool, a skinny model bobbing in the water below him, cold cocktail in hand and hot sunshine grazing his skin. 

 _I can’t swim_ , he told him.  Wasn’t quite what he had meant to say, but it was the first thing his tongue stumbled upon.  How to explain to a man who looks for a living, that you are shivering under a rain storm nobody else can see?

Nobody goes outside when it’s raining, and for Carl every day is wet and grey.  So he hunkers down with supplies in bottles and blankets over his head, and no intention of coming out.

But this morning the storm has come to him: a voice thunders its way into his dreams, dragging him to the surface.  He can’t work out whether the voice is berating him in English or not, and wonders if he has accidentally crossed international waters again.  It wouldn’t be the first time he strayed onto someone’s else’s ship without knowing the destination.

The words gradually untangle themselves into a Glaswegian tirade.  Carl lies very still and lets them wash over him, while he tries to work out why there is a Scot in The Libertines.  _Has Peter left again?  Surely they wouldn’t have replaced him with a kilt wearer_ … 

Then he takes the same tumble he does most mornings, dropping down the rabbit hole and through ten years into the present. 

The Libertines are dead.  His friends are gone, all washed away.  He is on tour, alone, all washed up.  _Carlos no mates_.  Well, not quite alone.  He’s squatting on the Glasvegas tour bus.  Which probably explains the aggravated Scotsman wearing down his eardrums.  Opening his eyes under water is impossible, but he tunes into the torrent of words long enough to confirm their owner: yep, one James Allan, surly Scottish frontman, currently very drunk and very angry.

He and James have a friendship rooted in muttering and minimal vowel sounds.  They discovered each other amidst a room full of sunshine people, two grim ports in a sea of leaping bodies and colourful drinks.  _The sun is never coming out again_ , Carl had wanted to tell them all, _he’s hung up his hat for good_.  Then he was introduced to a man with a face that had seen weather, slicked quiff and eyes guarded behind sunglasses in the dark club.  And they have got on like a quiet storm ever since.  All this bluster and lightning is most uncharacteristic. 

‘Ey, sleeping beauty, are you even listening ‘me?’

Carl thinks he had better show willing, if only to get this over with.  He mumbles an approximation of _good morning_. 

James makes an answering sound that might be a laugh, in another man’s mouth.

‘No, Carlos.  No, it’s nae a good morning at all.  That’s been very much the theme of my little talk there.’

Then there are a lot more words:  _ungrateful bastard_ ,  _groupies from arse to eyeball_ ,  _road manager_ _doing his fucking nut_ ,  _taking fucking liberties_ .  He doesn’t need to listen to all of them; it’s an old song and he has heard it a hundred times before.  You start and I’ll join in on the chorus…

He is surprised, really, that it has taken this long for the floodgates to burst. 

Carl doesn’t like this bit, if he is honest.  When he was younger, just the thought of confrontation was enough to make him hide in a cupboard.  Now, he just finds it dull.  They all come to him with the same angry eyes and accusations.  Girls, boys, friends, lovers.  The same furious questions about why he doesn’t feel more, why he won’t give them more of himself.

_Yes_ , he wants to say,  _you’re right, I am all the things you say_ .   _But also I’m very scared of drowning in my sleep_ .   _If you leave me I’ll go under_ .

Carl opts to have this particular face-off with his face firmly imbedded in his pillow.  He has never quite got used to seeing disappointment in someone else’s eyes, and knowing he put it there.

‘I defend you, you know, all the time!’  If he squints, he can see James’ quiff bobbing angrily out of the corner of his eye.

‘Shouldn’t,’ Carl tells him, ‘I’m indefensible.’

‘It’s not his fault, I tell them, he’s heart sick.’  He shakes his head.  ‘But it’s no excuse anymore, pal, not for being a complete bastard.’

The bed shakes under a frustrated kick. 

‘Get up and face me when I’m shouting at you, can’t you man?’

Carl stays firmly rooted to the mattress, flat on his belly.  He wonders idly what exactly he’s done to bring about this tartan meltdown.  There are fuzzy flashes of last night: girls probably, drinks certainly, angry voices perhaps, limbs and substances and joyless naughtiness all blurring into one sticky montage.

‘Barat.  Get fucking up.’

The blankets are whipped off him in a sudden gust, leaving Carl exposed to the elements.  He closes his eyes again and listens to the rain, the heavy patter in his brain making his thoughts slushy.

He hears James sigh heavily and feels the bed lurch as he sinks down beside him. 

‘I give up with you, boy, I really do.’

The weary sadness in his friend’s voice makes him wish his heart wasn’t frozen, so he could give him some of the regret he deserves.  But Carl is made of water now and he knows if he melts he’ll die.

‘Don’t care what you do,’ he tells the pillowcase. 

‘You do, though, I know you do.’  The voice is pleading now and Carl wishes he would stop.  Just give up and go away.  That’s what they all do in the end.

‘Don’t,’ he mumbles, knowing how childish he sounds.  ‘Don’t care.’

‘No?  Won’t care if I do this then-’

_Smack_ !

He hears the hand landing on his arse almost before he feels it.  Then he does feel it: heat exploding over his numb skin.  Closely followed by outrage.  He is fairly certain he has just been spanked.

‘What the fuck-’

‘Well if you’re going to be such a fucking child about it, ‘m just gonna have to school you.’

Carl doesn’t know whether to laugh or smack him in the face.  He is immediately aware of how undressed he is without the bedclothes for protection, flimsy boxers disappearing up his backside, in contrast to the fully dressed man sitting over him.

Before he can gather his thoughts, the hand slaps down on his bare skin again, and again.  And his brain is too busy processing the burn on flesh that has felt nothing for so long under so many hands.  Too busy to deal with things like moving, or protesting.

James is getting into his role now.  His hand swings down, casually cracking against Carl’s arse.  Each swat makes Carl’s body and the bed shudder.

‘Am I getting your attention yet, boy?’

Carl mumbles an assent.  James takes this as encouragement, his strikes picking up speed.

‘Let’s see what you’ve learnt then.  Repeat after me: I’m a brat and I need teaching a lesson.’

Carl groans into the pillow in protest.

‘F’ckoff.’

The hand falls again and again, landing deliberately on the same sore spot until he yelps and squirms away. 

‘Agh.  Alright.  I need a brat-  Wait, wassit again?’

He hears James snorting above him.

‘For fucks sake man, you’re useless at this being chastised lark.’

‘Well I didn’t realise I was going to wake up in fifty fucking shades of – ooh – sodding grey, did I?  Ow! Jesus!  I’m fucking trying!’

‘Aye, you can say that again.’  James delivers a final stinging slap and stops for a moment.  ‘Right then.’  He leans closer and slides a hand into Carl’s hair, taking a firm fistful.  ‘Let’s have ourselves another try, shall we?’ 

Carl finds his head pulled up by the fingers tangled in his hair.

‘Say: I’m a naughty boy and I need a smacked bottom.’

He cringes, eyes squeezing shut.  He can feel the heat rush into his face, mirroring the burn in his backside.

‘I’m…’  The fingers in his hair twist sharply; his scalp screams and his eyes water.  He takes a deep gulping breath.  ‘Manaughtyboy and I need a – aargh – smacked bottom.’

‘Good boy.’  He can hear the grin in James’ voice.  The grip on his hair is released and he sighs in relief.

‘Fucking pervert.’

The weight and heat of a body presses against his back, pinning him into the mattress.  He tries and fails to stop his hips bucking down.  He is hard, suddenly and undeniably.  He hopes for a moment that he can hide his shame but he can feel James smirk behind him.

‘Oh I’m the pervert, am I?  Kinky little sod.’  His friend sounds remarkably unconcerned, as his hand grabs Carl’s sore arse and forces him down harder against the mattress.  The friction rips through him and draws a pained gasp.

‘Now, let’s give you what you need-

* * *

 

 _It hurts, hurts so much_ , thinks Carl, and tries to match the thought up with the urge to grin.  His body is all fire and fingerprints – his poor arse spanked raw, boxers yanked down around his knees, sensitive thighs slapped and pinched until he whimpered – left shuddering and tense and needing. 

He has moaned and yelped, he has pleaded his apologies.  He has writhed under hot, punishing hands, and fisted the pillows and thrashed as he is held down.  All dignity is gone.  There is nothing now to be saved by not arching his back, not spreading his legs and begging for mercy.  Every throbbing cell of him is focused on the fingers that tease at the base of his spine.

They pause just short of their destination, making him squirm back desperately.

‘Not telling me to stop then?  I will, you know, if you say.’  James sounds less certain now, his voice and fingers stumbling.

Carl mashes his face into the pillow in irritation.

‘Fucksake.  You can’t say that now.’

‘Sorry.  Just seemed polite, you know.  I don’t really know what I’m doing here.’

Carl glares up at his tormentor in disbelief; James doesn’t meet his eyes, looking down to where his hand is frozen over Carl’s red arse as if he can’t work out how this has happened.

At moments like this he misses Peter desperately.  Wants someone who can see into his soul and pull out the darkest threads of things he couldn’t even admit to himself that he wanted.  He feels a surge of anger with James, for starting this thing that he doesn’t know how to finish.

‘You can’t just… start being polite.’

James look utterly lost now, the momentum broken.  His hand is hovering in mid air.  The bravado of earlier has leaked away; even his quiff has slumped.  His eyes, drink soaked and bleary, look horrifically as if they might spill over with tears.

Carl sighs.  He is far too sober for this.  Part of him would like to just pull the covers back over his head and disappear for a few hours, or days, and wait until all this has blown over.  But they have come too far to stop now.  His body is aching for a big finish.

‘You’re meant to ask me if I want it.  Make me tell you I do.’  He hides his face in the pillow a bit more, and forces the words past his reluctant lips.  ‘Make me beg.’

James seems to consider this.  Carl waits, face buried in the pillow, barely breathing.  He thinks if something doesn’t happen in the next thirty seconds he’s going to scream, and then kill the both of them, just to put them out of their misery.

‘Get up then.’  Carl looks up, to check he has heard right.  Impatient hands grasp his hips and drag him up into position.   ‘On yer hands and knees.  That’s better.  Now, open that pretty mouth.’

Carl does what he’s told and fights back a smile.  Things are looking up.

Two fingers are shoved roughly between his lips and then between hot cheeks, scraping their way inside him.  The shock of intimate pain and pleasure echoes and shakes through his body.

Fingertips find the tight knot of nerves inside him, and slide over and around.  Hot pleasure fans out from his centre, tingling in the base of his stomach and crawling up his spine. 

‘Say please.’

‘Bastard.’  The fingers brush home again and shivers of delight dance through him.  ‘Oh – please.  Please James, please.’

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Yes, yes, ‘m sorry.’

Sparks of heat and lust firework through his body.  His hips buck helplessly, following the hand that thrusts hard into him.  He is so close to the edge he can feel it, rough and blunt and waiting to take him over.

‘Are you desperate?’

‘Ugh.  Yes.’

‘Are you a dirty little cocktease who needs a good fucking?’

He can hear the barely suppressed laughter behind the words.  Git.

‘Get fucked.’ 

‘Not the right answer.’

Everything stops.  The fingers pull back, echoes of pleasure ebbing away.

‘Oh fuck.  Fuck, then yes.  Yes!’ 

‘Hmm?’  Teasing fingers return and circle their target.  Carl twists his hips, trying to force them to go where he needs them.

‘Don’t make me say that,’ he mutters. 

James laughs then, properly.

‘Fair enough.  Reckon the evidence speaks for itself, anyway.’  He drives his fingers deeper and Carl can’t be bothered to protest.

Finally. 

The fingers reach his centre, pressing and rubbing hard.  He sees the sun, white and blinding, and he stares straight into it.

***

 

Carl is watching rainbows dance, glittering and twisting their multicolour ribbons over the bed and around him like a maypole. 

He thinks he should probably feel more embarrassed than he does about the soppy imagery that his lust addled brain has sunk to.  While he is at it, he reminds himself to schedule some agonising shame about being soundly spanked by his friend and coming apart in his hands, harder than he can remember for a very long time.

But for now his skin is tingling with renewed feeling and he can feel his face stretched into a stupid smile.  He tries to make himself worry about James, who is collapsed next to him, unmoving and staring into the ceiling as if he has been run over.  He is still there, though.  That, Carl thinks, must mean something.

That’s the only reason he can come up with for his dazed hands finding their way into his friend’s lap.  He lets himself smile wider when he finds hard heat under his fingers; when James groans and reaches up into his touch.

At the same time, James tries to mumble  _you don’t have to_ , the sounds all tangled up in his lips.  Carl is quite proud to have discovered this new level of inarticulacy. 

_Lemme_ , he whispers into his friend’s neck, as he slides down him,  _jus’ let me say sorry_ .  He looks up at James through the curtain of his hair, blinking his blue eyes wide.  Boys always like that, he thinks vaguely.

He is not sure precisely why he wants to do this at all.  Maybe he is actually sorry; James has been a patient man, stoic while Carl has thrown too many messy parties on his tour bus, slept through appointments and whole days; shambled on and off stage in a stupor that redefined the meaning of ‘support’ act. 

Hazy flashes of the night before come to him: stumbling onto the bus like a lustful Jesus back from the dead, swiping the two swooning girls from James’ side and disappearing into the night to make them believers.  That, at least, surely deserves a proper apology.

He moves deftly with mouth and fingers to hush the last of his friend’s polite resistance.  His tongue flicks and fingers play patterns that he recognises, and he adds this to the list of things he will have to worry about later.

Also maybe – he builds up a more frantic rhythm on his friend, playing on the moans and bitten words like melodies – maybe, he wants to get even a little bit.  He feels raw and taken apart, and a need to rebalance the power between them.  Maybe he wants to see James lose a bit of his stiff quiffed swagger. 

His wish is answered in moments with a cry and a shudder.  Carl feels fingers in his hair, softer this time and grateful.  He leans into the touch. 

He gathers his courage gradually and moves back up the bed, settling down beside James.  Carl waits in the silence that stretches between them.  He always finds it is not saying sorry that’s the hardest part, but the moments after while you wait for a reprieve.

It comes with a cigarette passed to his lips and a hand resting easily on his back.

‘I was going to be a teacher, you know.  If I couldn’ be a rockstar.’

‘Yeah?’  Carl exhales and relaxes.  ‘Don’t think you’re allowed to discipline the kiddies anymore.  Could have you fired for that malarkey.’

‘Does the trick though, doesn’t it?  Think you learned the error of your ways.’  James smirks, and he feels a twin rush of affection and irritation. 

‘Reckon you learned a thing or two, there, an’ all.’

‘Aye.  Might have to put that to good use if there are any more shenanigans.  Just you behave yourself, Mr Barat.  No more raucous parties on school nights.’

Carl smiles to himself and shifts on the bed slightly, feeling the ache in his tender flesh and the warmth of his friend by his side.  He decides that, come rain or shine, whatever town they’re landing in next is party town.


End file.
